


Tiny Dancer

by sasha_b



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-05
Updated: 2011-07-05
Packaged: 2017-10-21 01:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/219386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik might learn to love music, with a little help from Raven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tiny Dancer

_Such is the end of the evildoer: the death of a sinner always reflects his life._

There’s a rocking motion to the car that makes Erik mildly sick. He stares out the window, silent, watching the darkness flash by in curves and blinding swathes of uneven light, the fingers of his left hand hovering lightly over the push down lock of the door.

“Penny for them?”

He licks his dry lips, a wry smile pulling at them as he continues to play with the small metal piece; fingers flicking up and down, the tiny _click click_ louder than the road noise.

“You have an obscene amount of money.”

A sigh. “That’s not what you were thinking.”

The bill of Erik’s suede newsboy cap clacks against the closed window as he turns his face slightly to the right; he can see the outline of Charles’ nose and mouth in the dim car. He doesn’t have to be able to see the expression to know what it is.

“Why did you ask, then, Charles?”

Charles’ right leg is crossed over his left knee; he knocks his shoe gently into Erik’s leg, the motion forcing Erik to look over at Charles – yes, a frown.

“I’m not – Erik. What’s got you like this?”

“Like what?” _click click click click_

“Didn’t you enjoy your evening?” Charles’ tone is soft, but Erik doesn’t have to be a telepath to sense the worry and frustration in it. He narrows his bright eyes as lights from the deserted country road wash over Charles in rhythmic motion, light, dark, light, dark, light dark – “It was fine.”

His ears burn still from the sound of the libretto; his head pounding in time with the memory of the music. The car rocks again as their driver brakes, and he can feel the goose bumps rising on his clothing covered arms. Mozart. Not his favorite.

“Then why are you so closed?”

A snort vibrates his aquiline nose; Erik shakes his head and unfolds his arms. They’ve come to the single red light in the whole of Charles’ neighborhood, and _click_ he’s opening the car door. The driver, alarmed, looks back, first at Charles, then at Erik, then at Charles again.

“I’m walking back.”

“Erik, for goodness sake,” Charles sputters, exasperated. Erik doesn’t care. He swings the door open and steps out, the darkness immediately enveloping him like a blanket that’s been left at the beach over night, thick and dirty and damp. “Please, get back in.”

“I’ll see you later, Charles.” He strides off into the woods, not needing directions – he can sense the earth and magnetic pull the poles have on it. He laughs; not something he would have ever paid attention to had Charles not pointed out the possibility.

 _There is so much more to you than pain and anger._

What would he have been without Charles?

Too late to know.

*

To Erik’s credit it only takes him an hour or so to walk the remaining five miles to Westchester. The house is dark save a few rooms upstairs; the lights in the back have been left on as well. Using one hand, he vaults over the low fence that separates the yard from the field where the satellite dish is situated; he’d stopped by it on the way back, touching the giant plate he’d stood on that morning with Charles and Sean. Sean, who might not have ever taken the chance had it not been for Erik –

He smiles manically at the memory, a brief flash of predator’s teeth, and lingers at the brick wall that surrounds the “breakfast area,” as Charles calls it. A few tables are set up outside for the children to eat or lounge at. He leans against the wall, his leather coat and turtleneck and hat all black, blending him into the background with an ease that’s come with years of practice.

He could be wearing a pink tutu and slippers and would still be able to blend in. He wonders if that’s due to skill – or the invisibility that surrounds him when he’s not on task. What is Erik Lehnsherr without Shaw? What is the monster without his master? Is he a blank slate – what is he good for save revenge?

His head turns around, his neck creaking painfully, slowly. Music wafts from an open window; it’s not the caterwauling like Charles’ had subjected him to earlier. It’s soft jazz, but despite it being something he doesn’t have a distaste for, he still shudders and raises his left hand, feeling for the pieces of the phonograph –

“Don’t even think about it, mister.”

“Raven,” he says and lowers his hand. He turns and leans on the wall, his trousers and belt protecting his flesh – so weak, why can’t he just leave and claim the prize he’s been searching for – from abrasion. He crosses his arms, his eyes glinting behind the brim of his cap. “Isn’t it a bit late for young ladies to be out of bed?”

She doesn’t rise to the bait. Smiling a bit too sweetly, she stops in front of him, her blond hair and dark eyes (so unlike the glowing intensity of Charles’) pretty but a mask Erik can see through. “I need you to show me something.”

His eyebrows draw together and then shoot up, his mouth pursing. “Really. How to find your room at the proper time?”

“Charles told me you don’t like music.”

 _Ah._

“I don’t dislike it. It depends on the situation. Most of the time it’s frivolous and too noisy. How can anyone think with the distraction?”

 _The scratch of the phonograph, the tinny wailing of the woman’s voice_

 _The bang of the gun_

 _The sound of his mother’s body hitting the floor_

 _Still that singing._

Raven reaches out and pulls his hands free from his sides. “I have to go to this thing with Hank; it’s an important dinner Moira wants us to attend. She wants us to show off,” she scoffs, her hair sliding over her shoulder with the motion. “I need you to show me how to dance.” She puts her right hand on his shoulder, and takes up his right in her left, squaring her shoulders. “It can be fast. I’m a quick study.”

Erik jerks out of her grasp. “Ask Charles.” He flashes the shark’s teeth again. “I’m busy.”

 _too slow, too easy to think, no, can’t do this. No music._

“Come on, Erik. You’re the right height. I tower over Charles on a good day,” she laughs, the sound tinkling and sweet in the dark. “Just humor me.” She picks up his hands again, his jacket creaking as he raises his arms. He begins to sweat under his layers of clothing, but he doesn’t draw away this time. Raven looks up at him, although she doesn’t have to crane her neck; she’s a tall woman, and he shakes his head once as he acknowledges her ability to goad him into something. He could leave easily, take the stairs to his borrowed room – or disappear back into the night like he’s brilliant at. His true power.

She stares at him, her left eye suddenly flashing yellow.

“Alright, but quickly.”

He flicks the hand up that’d he’d raised before to turn the phonograph off – instead, he turns the music up so they both can hear it.

Erik Lehnsherr does know how to take on a role fully, to get what he wants, to convince and to play his part exactly the way he should. The music drifts through the warm night air, and he picks up his feet and they –

 _dance_

She stumbles a bit at first, but she’s graceful and used to emulating other’s body movements, so Raven is the perfect partner. They don’t speak; merely whirl around the stone floor, avoiding tables easily, her robe blowing with their movements, his hat covering the thoughts in his eyes as he watches a spot over her right ear. The night smells sweet and smoky and each time they turn toward the field he can see the satellite dish, can feel it, the size of it overwhelming and terrifying.

They _dance_ -

And he begins to smile. Not the killer’s slash that rips his face, but a gentle, tiny thing that he doesn’t recognize on his own face. It’s brief, but it’s there. The music is slow and soft and his stomach only twists a bit and he loosens up as Raven laughs and follows him with an ease that belies her experience and her age.

He meets her eyes – her yellow eyes, her red hair wafting around her shoulders, blue skin peeking at the edge of her robe, and she’s grinning, and he grins, and they spin around one last table, and he dips her as the music slows to a stop.

He’s still sweating, but it’s not about _fear_.

“See. Perfect.” Raven’s smile is slow and beautiful, and he reaches for a lock of her hair, and pushes it back over her ear. She is –

“Exceptional.”

He can’t tell if she’s blushing, but she leans forward and presses a light kiss to his cheek, his hat shoved backward on his head with the motion of her head. “Thanks,” she whispers, and when she pulls away from him, her eyes are large and blue and her lips are full and red and she smells like _Charles._

Erik starts; she’s gone, walking toward the house, her hair lengthening, turning blond, her hand shifting to its masked color as she waves at him. “It’s not all bad, is it?”

His eyes narrow and he removes his hat, setting it on the table he’s standing next to.

“Out of the mouths of babes,” he murmurs.

The door shuts and he looks down at his hands and feels the metal in the house and in the distance the dish and its hulking weight. He looks up and into Charles’ (real) eyes and cocks his head, hands held out in front of him, a barrier between them. One of many, but Erik finds he wants to –

“I’m sorry, Charles,” he says simply. “I should have told you.”

“Don’t even think about it,” the other man replies, smile playing over his features. He is soft and oh so intelligent; his own mask. Power radiates from every pore, and Erik feels his own gift rise to meet Charles’. He rolls his lips inward and flexes his fingers. The music wafts down from the open window again.

“Just no opera,” Erik says softly. That’s all he’ll say about it; he can’t force the other words past his tight smile. The night is warm still, and he sheds his jacket, the cashmere turtleneck and wool trousers framing his lanky body sleekly – he can disappear anytime he wants to.

The blue of Charles’ eyes goes deep for a moment; a lake with no bottom, and Erik gets a flash of _I would hurt them all for you, my friend_ but it’s so fast he’s not sure if the thought is Charles’, or Charles reflecting Erik back at him.

Charles touches Erik’s shoulder and slides his hand down his fabric covered arm, slowly, the heat of the other man’s strong fingers soothing and the goose bumps are gone, Erik realizes.

“Fancy a game?”

“If you have enough champagne to last us,” Erik replies, the lightness he’s feeling unreal and he wonders if he’s going to be able to do this.

 _Do what?_

“Be here, with you.”

“You can,” Charles says aloud. “I have every faith in you.” He sticks out his left hand and –

 _hesitation, a powerful weapon_

Erik takes it in his right, and lifts it –

Charles spins once under their upraised arms, and bursts into laughter, a sound more beautiful than any gun, than any blood slick knife, than any vengeance Erik has dreamed about every night since he was ten.

Self hatred blossoms in his gut, shame at forgetting the goal, but he follows Charles upstairs to the study and the chessboard and the champagne and the soft jazz he realizes he possibly can tolerate. It’s a dance he’s willing to learn.


End file.
